In "The Party's Over" I then wrote: "Good luck and good timing are great, but ultimately, a Washington party rises and falls with its power quotient. This has always been the case. Ain't no mo'. Sing to me, Sally! It's entirely possible that Sally Quinn no longer understands that what she's writing is read by America, that the Washington Post is not—despite its primary function—one of those inter-office novelty papers circulated in giant law firms that tell everyone how the softball team is doing.
It's probably impossible to produce something more tone deaf to human beings—short of re-shooting the opening of 48 Hours with Eddie Murphy in the amputee wing of Walter Reed Army Medical Center, wearing headphones and screeching out Country Joe and the Fish's "Fixin' to Die Rag.
First of all, the senators are probably out trolling for money. When a senator or congressman walks into a room now, you don't think power. You think, "Poor guy or gal, what a nightmare life that is.
Yes, this is a natural response to have when, as of , the " median net worth of a current U. Jesus Christ, I mean—. I'll finish this thought as soon as I come up with a second sentence for my open letter to the male talent at Brazzers.
They are beholden to so many people. They can't get anything done on the Hill because of the hideous lack of bipartisanship. We used to celebrate the great compromisers. Now, they're all denigrated. And here, then, is the narcissistic sub-thesis of Quinn's editorial exercise: a celebration of the hostesses who used to nurture compromise in Washington salons , bringing together thinkers on opposing sides whose antipathy and resolve would crumble under the sensual assault of hors d'oeuvres, French wine and endless trophy-wife ass.
People like Sally Quinn used to be the guardians of the republic, mellifluous mavens who poured oil on the waters and pushed both sides together at table. That the slavish devotion to centrism exhibited by people of her ilk allowed one party to opportunistically redefine the center by pushing one platform to a rightist extreme should not be held against them. Washington is now a political toilet, but under no circumstances should the hosts of its most vital exchanges be held accountable for its becoming so on apparently their watch.
The diplomats, too, have no power. The good ones, such as the British and the French, are more interested in economics than in power. They follow the money, as well.
Maybe it's because their continental economy might be fucking imploding. I wrote this with both of my pinkies in the air, ramrod straight. I find this sentence quaffable. The White House could have power but doesn't engage. It doesn't use its power, so its power doesn't matter. Why don't you show up? What else could you possibly be doing? If members of the administration do go out publicly they see each other privately and in small groups of friends , they're more often standing in a corner than in the center of the room, unlike, say Henry Kissinger, who used to dominate every party he attended by standing dead center as people clustered around him.
Oh, Henry. I remember him telling the funniest anecdote about firebombing Cambodian children when he was accessorizing the fabulous war he helped illegally prolong with a simply stunning sabotage of Humphrey's peace talks in I think this was in, oh, '73 or so, just before the Chilean coup he sponsored—before all that messy business of disappearing people. Very messy. So Henry turns to this gorgeous redhead and says, " Search me if I wouldn't be destroyed if you won't let me lie in your strategic hamlet," and he points to her perfect bottom.
Power is the ultimate aphrodisiac. Anyhow, that was the same day I bought all these blood diamonds. Journalists used to be powerful. But now there are so many year-old bloggers, many of them showing up on the TV talk shows, that the old-timers are struggling to catch up, tweeting their hearts out and using hip language like "hashtags.
Hip language like the hashtags and the subtweets and the followback and the things and the goings on. This whole bit is just a few "untraditional" DC pigments away from being a Bill Cosby routine. Then it starts ranting about money. Journalists don't like money and don't respond to it. Shipping for. Enter a zip code for more accurate shipping information. View Policy View similar products. Full name. Comment text. No questions or comments yet See More See fewer. View Policies. Featured Promoted Listings.
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Price may vary. Always referred to as a rare golden-haired beauty, much of her magnetic attraction came from the unpredictable strength of her intensity—the sense that she could, and would, do anything at any moment. After Zelda married Scott, whose first novel This Side of Paradise had debuted to much acclaim, they were off on a wild ride of transatlantic partying that would capture the imagination of the entire country.
More tragic were the buried seeds of mental illness that began to emerge as early as when she collapsed while in Paris, leading her to begin a series of prolonged treatments. In between the parties and the emotional breakdowns, she managed to write a novel called Save Me the Waltz , which critics believe demonstrated her great promise.
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